Survival Machines
by expiry 4.23
Summary: AU. Neville was the Boy-Who-Lived. James recently died in an Auror accident. Lily is off in her own world, wrought with grief, but Harry doesn't want to feel at all. Harry wants to be a machine. Mentor-fic; not as depressing as it sounds.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but possibly the plot idea, and one OC who doesn't even feature very much into the story past chapter 5. All else belongs to JK Rowling, Warner Bros, et al. And the title was inspired by a Richard Dawkins book, _The Selfish Gene_.

**Author's note: **Okay, guys. So I was rifling through my old documents the other day and I stumbled upon this. I began it a year ago and only made it up to Chapter Four before abandoning it. I never posted because I was worried that if I didn't know how to continue it, it'd just go on permanent hiatus like a lot of my other fics. So I've come up with a solution. If people like this -- and I know it might not be everyone's cup of tea, given the first person POV and the childlike narration -- I'll be asking for help with ideas on how to continue past Chapter Four. If you'd like to help write, as well, I'd be happy to work out some sort of collaboration arrangement. You will get full credit for the parts you contribute. So, I suppose just think it over and maybe drop me a review or PM if you'd be interested. And I hope you enjoy!

There's a lot of talk of wanting self-control and changing one's physical appearance and even skipping meals, but it's not intended to be eating disorder themed. Many parts of this story really are meant to be taken lightly; on the whole, it's not nearly as dark as my other fics and it will end happily. For constructive criticism and hopefully-civilly-phrased grievances, you know where to reach me!

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**Prologue**

**_Spring, 1990_**

**_HARRY_**

**_---  
_**

So Mum got me this journal. I don't really know what to do with it and I wouldn't even write in it, really, except for the fact that Mum got it for me. And she wants me to write, so I can talk about my feelings and "cope with our loss." Only...I don't have feelings to talk about and I'm "coping" just fine. But I'll write anyway, because I hate to disappoint Mum, and the last thing I want to do is make it harder for her. I feel like I make it harder anyways, though, all the time and in ways I can't predict. Like when I ask for things, for example: even though they're things I really need, I feel bad about asking. I mean...she's "coping with our loss" too, and that seems like a task that shouldn't be interrupted, right?

She always says _cope_ when I think she really wants to say _grieve_. I think she's afraid of that word.

So I guess I should tell you more about myself, even though you're a journal and just paper and so you can't talk back or even understand me at all. Oh well. My name is Harry. I'm ten years old. I like reading, drawing, and looking up cool words in the dictionary. I don't play sports. I have a best friend named Janie Lewin, who's in my year at primary. Mum wanted me to go to primary so I could get some Muggle culture in me, or at least that's what she says. I think it's really that she didn't like the idea of me hanging around the house all day for...oh, five years of my life. So.

And if we're being frank, here, Janie's not just my best friend, she's my only friend. I should tell you about her. She's a Muggle. She's one year older than I am, but she was in my same class at primary because Mr and Mrs Lewin wanted her to have a year of homeschooling before she "integrated into a regular school system." I don't quite know what they meant to achieve by doing that...maybe they wanted to spare her the nastiness kids dole out until she was a year older. But you see, it doesn't do much good waiting a year, because that just leaves you an extra year unprepared, while it gives your classmates time to get an extra year nastier.

The kids at primary think that I'm weird. I reckon it has to do with the fact that I don't like to play with them at the interval between lunch and maths. They go off and do their "war games" with sticks as fake guns and mud as war paint, which is all very silly because as soon as we come in from interval our teacher, Miss Vance, makes them wash up and go to the corner to "think about what you've done, young man."

"Young man." That's my favourite of all the things adults say, really, because when you get a resounding "young man" that's when you _know _ they're upset. Teachers love to use "young man" when really they mean _cheeky brat _or _annoying whelp. _

And sending "young men" to the corner to "think about what they've done" is absolute rubbish. Punishments like that are even more ridiculous than the muddy war paint, because you totally know that little Trev by the Language Arts section isn't thinking about whatever it is he's done. _Both_ little Trev and Miss Teacher know it, too, which is the most frustrating part. Miss Teacher wasn't born yesterday, you know. She knows Trev's thinking about how much he resents her, most likely, or how it was a great game and he can't wait to do it again tomorrow...even if it means the corner and a time-out surrounded by huge, laminated bubble letters that spell out "Learning is **FUN**!!!!"

But Miss Teacher puts little Trev in the corner anyways, for appearances' sake and because Trev is "trying her patience."

That's another one adults like to use. They say, "You're trying my patience" when they really mean, "I'm fighting the urge to kick you out the door so hard you'll have bruising on your backside in the shape/approximate size of my shoe for weeks."

Grown-ups would like to think they're good at hiding their displeasure. They're not.

I've only been in the corner once in my entire time at primary. Once was enough. Being confined to a small space, surrounded by all of those chipper, paper exclamation points was probably the most revolting experience of my life. If you ask me (which you didn't, but I will tell you anyway), anything that requires that much punctuation to get its point across is just asking to be puked on.

Which this one kid Andrew Jennings did, actually, this past February. He was sitting in that very corner. Except I think it was because he had the stomach flu; I don't think he was taking a political stance against the declaration of "Learning is **FUN**!!!!" I doubt he felt as virulently towards those stupid sodding letters as I do.

Get it? Stomach flu? Virulently? I'm really clever. I heard Mum use that word once and I looked it up in the OED; I'm glad I did, because right now I just found the perfect opportunity to use it.

...and this is probably why the other kids avoid me.

I am sort of jealous, though, that Andrew got to blow chunks on those letters and I didn't. But oh well, public vomiting isn't really my bag anyways.

Neither are those war games, if you must know...or any of the other macho sandlot stuff the other boys play. Mum makes me wear nice clothes to school so the teachers don't think I'm unloved. I don't fancy getting my nice clothes dirty only to have Mum be disappointed with me later. I don't like to get messy in general, actually, unless it's in my backyard and I'm playing with my Godfather Sirius and he's in dog-form. Does that sound weird? Yeah, I guess it does. Let me explain. He's something called an Animagus, which means he can take the form of a certain animal at will. His animal form is this massive, shaggy black dog and I love to chase him around the garden and I don't even care if I get filthy, then, because it's just like having a puppy, really, and I'd be completely willing to get filthy playing with a puppy.

Mum says we can't get a puppy of our own because it would be too much work to take care of it. So that's that.

At interval I like to sit on the playground and read and so I get shoved around for it. Sometimes it bothers me, but mostly it doesn't. That was the approach Mum and Dad taught me growing up. "Just shrug it off, Harry," they'd say. Sometimes Dad would say that I should get them all back with a right nasty prank, but usually Mum kept him in line. She's very practical that way.

Mum really is very practical. Every once in a while she'll grin and suggest we do something impulsive, like pack all our bags and go to the shore for a weekend holiday, or spend the afternoon at the zoo, or watch a marathon of old black-and-white horror films made back in the days before they knew _anything_ about how to make good horror films. (We own one of those Muggle televisions, but Mum's done some sort of enchantment to it so the electricity still works around all this magic. Mum's brilliant that way.) Those nights are the best: we have chocolate ice cream and home-popped popcorn and she lets me stay up past midnight.

But those marathon movie nights and trips to the shore are getting fewer and farther between; her practical side's won over, I reckon. I mean, not that she wasn't super practical before -- she's always said things like, "Let's do it properly, Harry," and "Let's get this sorted before supper," so we did. And she's always known what's up. She never let me get away with _anything._ But I never minded, really, because it was such a gas to come into the house, just pretending to be all innocent when actually I'd just done something heinously stupid, and have her corner me first thing and let me have it like nobody's business. Sometimes I could smile and blag my way out of it, but not always.

Only...I guess something's changed, since Dad died.

She's not as good at it as she used to be, I guess, both the impromptu (glad I looked that one up, too!) "horror" film marathons and the lectures after I do something wrong. Or maybe she's just as good at those things, but she's just stopped doing them. The lecturing especially. Sometimes I do something silly just to see what she'll say...but then she doesn't say a word.

Like last week when I started throwing rocks at this annoying cat from down the way, and of course the cat flipped out and started attacking me and practically mauled my face off. I came inside totally expecting this massive blowout of a row with Mum, about how I should "stop torturing animals" and "this is what you get for attacking an innocent cat" and "aren't you sorry now that your face is so hilariously disfigured?"

Or the best yet: "Well, you certainly deserved what you got, mister." (I just love it when adults say "mister" to you. Almost as much as I love hearing "young man.")

Except. Except, except, except.

She didn't say anything. I didn't get that "mister" I was hoping for, let alone a "young man." I come in and my nose is bleeding -- just a bit, really, but bleeding all the same -- and she looks over at me, frowns, and says, "Go wash up for supper, Harry; you know how dirty your hands get when you play outside."

I mean, really. Yeah, I was glad to get out of a lecture, but I just felt like it wasn't right coming from Mum when she's just so practical, and even though she loves letting go and having a fun afternoon with me, she doesn't like foolishness like...throwing rocks at angry pussy-cats.

Well.

So that was the start of it, really. I guess I've been worse than I usually am. I don't mean to be, exactly. Not really, anyway. Because I know it's not very productive and it just makes things harder for Mum. But she's just gone so quiet that I feel like I have to up the ante now just to get her to react. That sounds kind of bratty, I guess, but when I do those foolish things I don't even think about it before I do them. I just...do them.

It's like she says, "Go wash up for supper, Harry," and I do it without complaint, but the very next day I'm just climbing really high in the trees (like she always told me not to), or I'm going off without telling her (like she always told me not to), and she never even scolds me. She just says, "Go wash up for supper, Harry," so it's like there was no point to my doing anything at all. So the next day I stay out longer, maybe, or I leave after lunchtime and bunk off the rest of the day at primary and get a note sent home from the Head.

But it's always the same. "Go wash up for supper, Harry." And so I do.

**---**

There's a man who comes round sometimes. I don't know him so I stay out of his way. I think his name is Severus Snape but I don't know for sure, I've only heard Mum say it once or twice so she may very well be talking about someone else. That's not a very pleasant name, Severus Snape. Sounds like some sort of nasty curse you might cast on an enemy. "How dare you insult me in this manner! _Petrificus__ totalus! Severus Snape!"_

He sort of scares me, if we're being honest: he's not the most pleasant-looking of blokes. He's all surly and hook-nosed and he only dresses in black, even though the weather's become rather nice these days so he could probably get away with a light-weight cloak, a collared shirt, and some smart-looking trousers.

And the whole outfit could be, say, grey or blue, you know. He shouldn't confine himself to one colour like that. He has dark features that would look good with almost any colour. Well, maybe not bright pink or neon green, but that's just common sense. Nobody looks good in neon. Something about the harsh overtones and the way it soaks up light; we read about it in art class.

I just want to say to him, "You know, a nice slate-blue wouldn't hurt. Nothing wrong with a little slate-blue." But I don't. I've never even spoken to him. He probably doesn't even know I exist. When he comes round I make myself sparse as can be. Mum talks to him a lot, so that means I'm sparse a lot. But that's okay with me as long as it's helping her "cope with our loss."

I think sometimes Mum is the most open with him and she talks about those feelings she has but wishes she didn't. And hopefully that'll help her feel better, so I don't want to interrupt in case it's helping. It seems that she has a whole bunch more "coping" to do than I do. Go figure, she was married to Dad for eleven years and they were in love for even longer. Probably a whole _year_ longer. That brings her to twelve. I just had him around as a Dad for ten and so she's got me beat by two whole years. I suppose that means she gets to grieve for two years longer than I do.

Only, like I said, she doesn't call it grieving. That Snape man does (I overhear it when I'm eavesdropping, just like Mum always told me not to), but Mum never does. Not once.

It's a funny thing about when the Snape man comes over. I never hear her say to him, "Go wash up for supper, Severus," and it's probably because he's a grown man. But maybe it's also because he's not the "Go wash up for supper" type. I dunno. But I _do _ know she doesn't stare blankly at him when she talks. She isn't happy, of course, but at least she doesn't look at him wearily like she doesn't know what to do with him.

That's the issue, really, when you get right down to it. I think she just doesn't know what to do with me. I reckon that's fair; I don't know what I would do with me either, if I were her.

Before Mum got all quiet on me she said I ought to visit Dad's grave, but I don't see why I would do that, really. It doesn't make very much sense to visit someone who doesn't even know you're there. But I could tell she was upset when I said that and I sort of felt bad for upsetting her. Except she wouldn't actually say the words, "I am upset with you, Harry," so...well...if she wasn't going to say anything, then of course I couldn't say anything either.

I don't see _why_ she should be upset, though. It's not like Dad's going anywhere.

---

A/N: Tell me what you think so far, and if I should post the next four chapters...and whether you'd be interested in helping me write more after those are up!


	2. Chapter 1: Harry

**Disclaimer: **see previous chapter

**Author's Note: **Five things --

1. A couple reviewers asked if Harry's marked lack-of-mention when it comes to James was intentional. The answer? Most definitely. You'll get a few mentions here and there, but he won't actually talk about his feelings until Chapter Three at the earliest, more likely Chapter Five or after. I tried to make it easy to read between the lines, though, so you know he's messed up about it anyway.

2. Both Sirius and Harry have a tendency to throw Muggle references around like sweets at a child's birthday party. For Harry, it makes sense because he was half-raised in the Muggle world. For Sirius, I will argue that he rebelled against his family by getting heavily into Muggle culture: reading Muggle literature, going to cinema, seeing rock concerts, etc.

3. All the story will be in the form of diary entries. Most will be from Harry's POV, but a few entries will be from Snape's, Sirius's, Lily's...etc.

4. Snape is a bit of a bastard in this first chapter. Actually, scratch that. He's _such_ a bastard. Give him time, though, and a little leeway. It's necessary for proper plot development. It wouldn't make sense for me to suddenly have him rushing to Harry's side when he doesn't even know the kid...and Harry's the living proof of Lily's preference for another man, however deceased that other man may be.

5. I apologise formally to any estate agents I offend.

Now, on with the chapter! Oh, and please review. They make my day.

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**Chapter One  
HARRY  
01 May 1990**

So, you know those times where everything feels totally crap but you can tell it'll be all right at the end? Like, if you can get through the shit part, keep your head down and your eyes forward (even if you end up going through your day like a zombie), you'll eventually reach the end of it and feel that sense of relief and accomplishment and pride in how you pushed through, even when it sucked worse than being stuck in a room with a Dementor and an estate agent for a week?

Now wasn't one of those times.

I think I _knew_, rationally, that it would be all right at the end -- that I'd look back on all this and laugh one day -- but that was assuming I'd even reach that "one day" where I could laugh. Right now, the odds weren't in my favour.

There's this stupid kid -- Quinton Parker -- and his mates, four boys who follow him round like he's somehow worth following round just because he's bigger and more imposing than the other kids at primary. Quinton Parker likes to pick on kids who don't fit in. Kids with the wrong shoes, or the wrong clothes; the wrong hair style; the wrong accent; the wrong life. Parker delights in tormenting them and tearing them down to size. He pummels. He punches. And his personal favourite is the schoolboy cliche: shoving kids' heads down toilets and flushing so the water goes round and round their faces and they choke as they try to hold their breath.

So, basically, at the moment that's where I was. Choking on toilet water. I thanked my lucky stars it was _clean _toilet water, instead of -- well, use your imagination.

I was beginning to think I might die like this, and then the old janitor would find me hours later just before locking up. He'd probably get a camera, too, instead of pulling me to safety. Because...I mean...it's quite funny, isn't it? Seeing my waterlogged carcass still half hanging out of that stained porcelain bowl.

But right at the worst part -- the inhaling and choking and almost actually whimpering part -- Parker and his mates seemed to grow bored. I guess because I wasn't fighting back and crying like the other kids they messed around with.

"Oi, come on, then. Potty's had enough for today, haven't you, Potty?" Parker said, but he gave me a kick and stepped on my glasses for good measure.

Well, I'm not so blind I couldn't walk home without them. I mean, really, it wouldn't be the first time. I'd just get Mum to repair them magically when I got back. And after that -- straightaway, maybe even before I changed out of my wet things -- I'd be brushing my teeth for _hours._ I hated when they got me with the toilet. It was just so -- so -- _crass._

Once I was sure they'd gone, I sat up and tried to straighten myself out. The nice shirt and trousers Mum had had me put on today were a total wreck, my book bag was a wet soppy mess (Merlin only knew what'd become of my coursework and texts), and I just generally looked and felt like a drowned rat.

I shouldered my wet bag and tried not to cry. Crying wasn't practical.

_Just shrug it off, Harry_, I told myself. _If Dad were here, that's what he would tell you to do._

---

I changed pretty quickly when I got home, as it happens, and only spent twenty minutes brushing my teeth instead of the two hours I really wanted. See, my godfather Sirius, my uncle Remus, and my uncle Peter were over for afternoon tea.

I guess I should clarify first, though, before I keep writing about the afternoon: Sirius is my real godfather, but Remus and Peter aren't my real uncles. They're really just my dad's best mates from Hogwarts. But they've been around for forever, they helped raise me, and so I reckon I consider them uncles even if they're not really.

I do have one _real_ uncle -- his name is Vernon Dursley and he married Mum's sister, Petunia. I don't like him, though. His face is always dangerously purple and permanently set in a look of disgust. He gives me commands (though they come out more like threats, if we're being honest), and even though I'm not his son so by all rights he shouldn't have any say in what I do, I have to listen to him because there's a slight chance I might not make it home alive if I don't. He doesn't like magic; he calls it "freakish" and "unnatural." Aunt Petunia and their stupid son (my cousin Dudley), are just as horrible. Petunia is shrill and horrid and Dudley gets his gang to chase and pummel me, just like Quinton Parker and his mates.

Whenever Mum needs to go out for the day and Sirius, Remus, and Peter are unavailable to watch me, she sends me round to Petunia and Vernon's place. I can't wait until I'm old enough to stay home by myself.

Anyway. Back to afternoon tea. The sun was out, and the air was crisp but mild, and Mum wanted us out on the patio for biscuits and sandwiches. She didn't even really notice when I came in sopping wet and glasses-less. Maybe she thought I did it on purpose -- like I jumped in a fountain or something, just to aggravate her -- and as such she didn't want to comment in case that just encouraged further rule-breaking and fountain-jumping. Oh, well. I didn't argue with her; I just got dried off and changed into a nice pair of slacks, a dress shirt, and my casual robes, feeling very strange without my glasses.

But Remus noticed my glasses-less-ness, which was nice. He sat next to me on the grass while Mum was getting the table set and talking to Sirius and Peter about ten feet away and whispered in my ear, "Where are your glasses, Harry?"

"I accidentally stepped on them," I lied easily. After years of getting the shit kicked out of me, I've learned a few things...one of which being, _don't tell adults that it's happening._

Remus smiled kindly as if to say it could happen to anyone. "Want me to fix them for you, then?"

"That'd be brilliant," I said, pulling out the shattered frames. "Cheers!"

Remus chuckled. "You're welcome, Harry. Think nothing of it."

We sat in silence for a moment, just letting the spring air wash over us, but then I heard Sirius say, "Boys will be boys, Lily. No need to sound the alarms every time the boy skives."

Peter chimed in, "Right. And besides, it's only Muggle primary. How much is that stuff really going to benefit him in the long run, eh?"

I guess Mum had been talking to Sirius and Peter about my behavioural problems, then. I wasn't sure why, but that made me smile.

Beside me, though, Remus was looking uncomfortable, as if he didn't like the idea of them talking about me when I was only ten feet away. It was neat, in a way, to have someone finally see what I had to deal with on a regular basis: people constantly talking _about_ me, never_ to _me. But in terms of feeling bad about it...he really needn't have bothered. At this point, I was used to it. I was even starting to find it kind of funny, you know? And useful. When people forget you're there or that you can hear them, they let their guards down. You learn stuff you never would've if they'd remembered you.

"I suppose you're right," Mum was saying. "But I just wish I knew what to do. He's completely foreign to me. All of it is."

"He's a kid, Lils, not a Martian," Sirius snorted. "If you'd like, I could give it a go."

Remus turned to me with a forced smile. "So, Harry," he said, in a clear attempt to cover up the awkwardness. "How's school going? Liking your classes?"

I shrugged and gave him a curious look. Because -- couldn't he hear for himself how school was going? Mum, Sirius, and Peter were holding a State of the Harry Address not fifteen paces from where we were sitting. But of course it's rude not to answer (Mum taught me so), so I told him things were fine. I didn't mention Quinton Parker or his mates beating me up after school every day. I didn't want Remus to be worried -- he gets worried about the strangest things sometimes. Which is why I _also_ didn't mention how Janie and I found this squirrel some kids had shot with a BB gun, and how Janie was now keeping it in a shoebox in her room and trying to nurse it back to health. I was afraid Remus would wig out on me and go on about ethics and hygiene and the very real possibility of contracting rabies.

Remus does stuff like that. Wig out about rabies, I mean.

What I did mention was how I had been moved ahead to the advanced tracks in maths and language arts, and how I wrote a story about a boy who helps a baby ocelot find its mother and my teacher liked it and said I was "precocious."

One thing I like about Remus is he doesn't ask things like, _"And do you know what that word means, Harry?"_ as if I'm stupid. He knows that if I don't know what a word means, I'll look it up. He gets that and he gets me. He talks to me like an adult, and I really appreciate it.

"That's brilliant, Harry," Remus beamed when I'd finished telling him about the story. "I'd like to read that sometime, if you'll let me."

I said, "Yeah, of course," even though I was pretty sure I wouldn't. It's nothing against Remus, you understand -- it's that I don't like anyone reading my stuff. If I had my way I wouldn't have to even write it in the first place.

"Harry, Remus, we're ready," Mum called, and we both stood up together.

I looked up at Remus and thought about how I only come up to his waist -- maybe not even that high -- and he's not a particularly tall man. I guess that means I'm pretty small. I always just shrug it off when the kids at primary take the piss, mostly because I figure they're just not worth it. Or it's just not worth it. Whatever "it" is. Back when I cared what people thought about me, it made me feel dead terrible; but then Mum told me it was just their way of dealing with their own insecurities and I reckon that made just enough sense to keep me from feeling totally crap. Not too long after that, Dad told me all I had to do was toughen up and rise above it and everything would be all right. I'm not sure if that made things better, or worse. Maybe a little bit of both -- it made things better because I don't care what they do anymore, but it made things worse because the less I react the meaner they are to me.

Mum had made sandwiches for tea today...turkey and Brie, with cranberries and stuff added for flavour. It was too fancy for my tastes; give me a good cheese toasty or bologna and cheddar any day and I'm set. But like I've said, I hate disappointing Mum so I ate one anyway -- or I tried to, that is -- and washed it down with the first flush Darjeeling and cream she typically reserves for company. Much as I love Sirius, Remus, and Peter, they're not company. They're regulars at our place; we have Earl Grey and chocolate digestives every week...it's easy, it's predictable, and it's more for the enjoyment of seeing them than it is for having a posh afternoon tea.

One time we did bring out some Oolong for a summer garden party with Sirius's girlfriend Lydia, but that was before Lydia broke up with him and told him that she "needed something real" in her life; she wanted someone who'd be the father of her kids, not "just some meaningless fling." (I don't imagine I was supposed to be hearing any of all that, but like I said -- when you're a kid, it's like people think you can't possibly understand -- like their grown-up speak is Gobbledegook to you, or something -- so instead of watching what they say they say it anyway but figure it'll go right over your head.) Sirius was bummed about that, I could just tell, but he didn't really let it show much. He kept grinning and playing with me, and we all forgot about it pretty quickly.

He's not dating anyone right now (he says there are more important things to focus on, like helping Mum and me through), and Remus has this weird self-imposed isolation thing going on (he's had it since the whole time I've known him, probably because he's terrified of turning someone else into a werewolf), and Peter seems to never date anyone _ever_ (maybe he's asexual, like certain species of plants). So basically, that means we never have fancy tea anymore. We have no reason to.

In fact, more often than not -- especially since Mum's been so depressed lately -- we cut corners and make tea with those little individual tea sachets. The only one who seems even remotely scandalised by any of this is Remus, and he makes allowances given the fact Dad just died.

Personally, I don't care that much whether we have first flush Darjeeling or Earl Grey brewed from tea bags. It's bad of me, I know, but...there's just bigger stuff to worry about, right? Like Sirius said: more important things. No sense making mountains out of molehills. Of course, I tried telling Remus that and he just smiled patiently and told me he reckons I won't grow up to be a tea connoisseur. Right. Like I even planned on it.

So, we were all sitting around, drinking our fancy tea and eating our fancy sandwiches, when who should show up but _Severus Snape. _Suddenly, I understood. The tea wasn't for us, it was for him.

Mum was willing to make an effort for him.

I hadn't seen him in a week or two, but let me tell you -- just because you haven't seen someone for a week or two doesn't make them any less imposing. If anything, they become _more_ imposing, because you've lost the tolerance you built up. Or something. And besides, there was just a different cast to him, this time. Usually when he comes round our place he's just wearing a look of eagerness crossed with disdain, sort of like he's really gagging to see Mum but not so keen on seeing me. I don't mind that look; it lets me know I'm supposed to clear off. So I do. But today -- oh, let me tell you. The look on his face was _terrifying_. It was a sneer, but somehow his lower lip was curling too and showing off his teeth...sort of like when a dog snarls at you and you see every fang in its mouth.

He stared _right at me_ and said, so softly that no one else reacted, "Well, well, well. Isn't this a touching tableau? The Dream Team reunited at last, with Baby Potter taking up where Daddy Potter left off. A noble enterprise, to be sure. A bit macabre, certainly -- and arguably Oedipal -- but nobody's perfect."

I looked around, my heart hammering. It was as I expected. _No one else had heard him say it!_ And that meant -- that meant no one else would _believe _me if I told them, because parents never believe kids anyway, and about something this outlandish --

Something cold clenched in my stomach but I didn't react. Couldn't react. It was like with Parker and his mates, you know? They smell fear, bullies do. If I let myself get upset or scared -- even for a hot second -- I was done for. So I just swallowed and stared straight ahead, feeling the mild spring breeze ruffling my still-damp hair, not blinking, not letting on how much I wanted to run away right then.

He pulled back to survey the rest of the group. "Lily," he said, his voice rising in volume. "You didn't tell me these -- _beasts_ -- would be in attendance this afternoon."

"Severus," Mum said tiredly. "Don't fuel the fire. Just let's all calm down -- "

But we did _not _"all calm down." Not slightly. Sirius started growling, even though he was in human form, and Remus quickly grabbed his arm to stop him attacking Mr Snape like a feral dog. "Lily, I'm sorry, but I feel you've been a bit dishonest with us. Fraternising with the enemy behind our backs --"

"He's not the enemy!" Mum argued. "He's reformed, now, and he's been a terrific help --"

"Lily," Sirius howled, "He's hoodwinked you! He's used some sort of -- some sort of _potion _or _enchantment _or -- he's used _bloody something! _He was completely sent by you in school, what's to say he wouldn't try to move in on you now that James is out of the picture?"

Mum looked defeated, then. Downright exhausted, and a bit like she might cry, which filled me with that anxious panicky feeling and made everyone else around the table (except Mr Snape) look ashamed. Mr Snape, conversely, just looked haughty and furious. I was beginning to think his face couldn't set into any other sort of expression.

"Still have the tact of a raging hippogriff, I see," Snape sneered at Sirius. "I'd so hoped you'd be better trained by now, but alas, I'm sorely mistaken."

(Except, I thought angrily to myself, Snape was one to talk about tact when he had just said that thing about me taking up for my dead father not _two minutes ago_ -- )

And Sirius snarled, "That's not all you'll be if you don't leave right this goddamn second, Snape."

And Snape said, "Temper, temper. Lupin, do keep a tighter leash on your dog."

Which, personally, I thought was rather unfair, but I wasn't about to argue with someone like Snape. I didn't even _know _the man and already I was clever enough not to argue. Not when he looked so vicious, anyway, and his wit was sharp enough to cut glass.

To keep from saying something stupid and getting noticed again, I silently pushed my chair back and slipped away from the scene, leaving my posh sandwich mostly untouched. I made it into the house just as I heard Mum saying, in a tired but firm voice, "Sirius, Severus, _please. _I don't see why we can't put all this nastiness behind us, let bygones be bygones, and sit down to a nice tea together. We're adults now, aren't we? Can't we behave like them? It's the practical thing to do."

Some unintelligible shouting started up at that pronouncement, so I kept walking. Maybe I could give Janie a call, or get some coursework in before supper. Or maybe I'd just skip supper altogether. If I had to see their faces again tonight, I might end up saying something I'd regret.

---

Janie's family can be quite nice. Or -- they try to be, and I guess that's what counts. Her mum is brilliant and makes the best tuna casserole I've ever had...she always asks about my day like she's really interested in hearing about it...things like that. And her dad isn't around much, but when he is he plays the part of gruff-but-supportive businessman. He asks about coursework and marks. He's the one who gave me the OED for my birthday last year and told me, in that intense tone, "If you ever want to really knock them dead, Harry, hit them with superior intellect. Make something of yourself. Be the person they never will, and when you're rich and happily married one day, living the dream, it'll all have been worth it."

The trouble is, he isn't very nice to Janie. He's so gung-ho that sometimes he doesn't understand how someone could possibly disagree with him. Janie doesn't talk about it much, but I know Mr Lewin yells a lot, saying things like, "Why can't you just live up to your potential? I try so hard and I work so much, and this is how you repay me!"

I know he really loves her. Janie and I both know it. I think, sometimes, he loves her so much that he just doesn't know how to handle it. She's not like him -- she doesn't care for school at all, and he sees her squandering the opportunities he's worked so hard to give her, and he just freaks. One thing leads to another and arguing becomes shouting, which becomes a resounding slap, and then Janie's out the door and on her way down to my house. If it were me, I'd probably detach and not fight back; I'd assimilate, even. But the wonderful thing about Janie is she's got nerve; she just keeps doing her own thing, always grinning that Janie grin.

Dad's never slapped me, not even when I talked back and gave him cheek. Mum slapped me once -- a month ago -- but I guess I deserved it because I was being such a wretched son. Maybe I should tell you about that later, though, because I reckon it would take a lot of getting into and I don't fancy going off on that tangent just yet. Maybe next entry, or something. But basically, the long and short of it is I said something awful and Mum got upset. I learned my lesson after that. I shouldn't make Mum angry, and I shouldn't lose control. It just ends up hurting us both.

So, you see, that's why I left this afternoon instead of defending Sirius when Snape said those nasty things to him. I need to keep my head down and my eyes forward for a while.

By the time I reached Janie's (I changed out of my robes first, of course, and put on a hooded pull-over and jeans instead), night had fallen and I was wondering what Mum and the others were up to -- what she'd cooked for supper, whether or not Sirius had murdered Snape, etc. I told Janie all about the afternoon and she agreed that it sounded very unpleasant.

"But maybe it'll all blow over," she suggested. "They can't fight forever, right?"

"I think Sirius actually _does_ have the ability to shout forever, though. Remember that afternoon we all went out to see that rugby match together and he just kept on cheering 'til he lost his voice? I reckon if he's really passionate about something, he gives it his all."

Janie looked troubled. "Right," she said. "So today was like that rugby match, only terrible instead of brilliant."

I nodded. "Exactly." This time the colourful language didn't echo, but it certainly did resonate. "You should have heard some of the things he said," I muttered. "Or rather, some of the things they said to each other."

"Bad?" Janie guessed.

"More like really clever. But clever in a bad way, yeah," I replied. "I never really thought about it, but I guess those two go back a while."

I was starting to puzzle it together, now. Mum had been to school with Dad, Sirius, Remus, and Peter: I already knew that. But what I hadn't known was that she'd grown up with Snape and been to school with him, too. And he was apparently stuck on her sometime during the school years, which gave him motive for trying to get close to her now that Dad was gone. It seemed like Sirius, Remus, and Peter must have known Snape in school, too...and not liked each other at all_. _Also, Mr Severus Snape was actually Professor Severus Snape, and he taught Potions at Hogwarts, which Sirius teased him about when he sneered, "Run along, Snivellus, and go play with your bloody _chemistry set_."

I don't know what kind of nickname that was -- Snivellus, I mean -- but it didn't sound nice.

But, then I remembered how cruel the man had been and I wondered if maybe he didn't deserve it.

I didn't know. Merlin. I was so confused. I just kept thinking, over and over, on what Professor Snape had said to me. _Taking up where Daddy Potter left off. Noble enterprise. Macabre. Oedipal. _I didn't even know what those words meant, and I was nowhere near the OED, but I was clever enough to catch his drift. He was suggesting...he was suggesting that I was trying to be my father. Replace him, even. And he didn't mean it in a positive way.

_Nobody's perfect._

The problem with Severus Snape, I was beginning to realise, was that he knew where to poke a sharp stick. And once he found that weak spot, he kept poking and poking. That's how come he could make Sirius so angry even though Sirius has become really patient and relaxed about things over the last five years. All that patience and relaxation goes away when Snape comes into the room, because Snape just knows the right buttons to push. And I'd let him push mine. I'd let him push mine and now I was sitting here, over-thinking and overanalysing, and it was probably more my fault for letting him than it was his fault for doing it.

"You okay?" Janie asked then, picking a blade of glass and twisting it into knots.

"'Course," I replied. I looked up at the night sky and frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?"

---

A/N: Well, that's chapter one done. Tell me how you're enjoying it so far! What would you like to see more of?


	3. Chapter 2: Harry

**Disclaimer: **see previous

**Author's Note:** The next chapters will be from other people's perspectives, not just Harry's. We have some from Lily and from Snape. So I hope you enjoy! And...there was a bit of radio silence last chapter; I'm curious as to why. Thank you to the people who reviewed. But for those who didn't, if it was because you didn't like something, I welcome concrit! I love it, actually. Some of my favourite reviews have been from people telling me the parts of a story they disagreed with and why. So if there was something you disliked, tell me! I can't promise I'll change it -- I made those choices for a reason -- but I'll definitely take the time to explain why I made them. And I'll be glad you were honest.

That's all. Onward and upward.

---

**10 May 1990  
HARRY**

So...I suppose I promised to tell you about that thing with Mum, and since it's been a few days since I last wrote and I have a lot to catch you up on, I'll start with that before I go on to talking updates.

Okay. So last entry I told you Mum slapped me once. Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, how could Lily Potter do something like that? She's not that kind of person. And you're absolutely right. She's _not_ that kind of person, and that's why it was so bad -- for both of us. She was horrified, and I was horrified, and everything was so utterly _horrible_ in that moment that I'll never ever in my life forget the look on her face. Never. For as long as I live, I'll remember.

I remember that day like it was yesterday, even though it was actually two weeks after Dad's funeral. I'd just started that round of misbehaviour, you know? And it was before she went catatonic on me and tried to tune out the fact that I exist, so she was on my case _constantly_, like, "Why are you acting like this, Harry?" and "I just don't know what's got into you, young man." Stuff like that. And usually, the rows we had ended in one of us walking out, no harm done, and the next day things would go back to their usual wash-up-for-supper-Harry selves.

But this time...this time something went wrong. I went wrong, and she went wrong, and just all around things didn't go as planned.

It started out like normal, with Mum saying, "I just don't understand you, Harry. I got another call from the Head today. This behaviour is downright ridiculous." And I followed protocol and sort of shrugged like I couldn't be bothered.

"He's overreacting," I muttered. "I didn't do anything this time; it was stupid Parker and his stupid mates."

She didn't like that, you see. "Oh, and I suppose Parker and his mates are to be blamed for your bunking off school the rest of the day? Because last time I checked, Harry James Potter, you were responsible for your own actions."

Let me stop here and assure you that this is all normal. This is all according to plan. Even the bit where she said all three of my names, together, in that stern tone of voice. That was how it was supposed to go, so I didn't mind. In fact, I'm ashamed to admit I was kind of pleased, actually. I reckon I thought to myself, _at__ least she's getting angry. At least she's paying attention. At least she seems to care._ But she seemed to care about something that I didn't want to talk about. The school year was almost over. If I could just get through the next couple months, then get through the summer, I'd be off to Hogwarts and maybe there'd be fewer bullies -- and besides, I could fight back, finally -- and things would make sense again.

So I said, "Mum, come on. Can't you just leave it? Please?"

"No, I cannot just leave it, Harry," she said. And the look on her face -- that angry and wounded expression? -- that was new. "We will talk about this and come up with a practical solution!"

And see...that's not really what she wanted to say. I hear the things she wants to say even when she doesn't actually say them. Call it a gift: the ability to translate "Mum-speak" into "Normal-People-speak." Now, what she _really_ wanted to say, "I'm at wits' end, Harry." Or...maybe, "I can't take much more of this." I heard it loud and clear. It's hard to hear your own mother implying she doesn't know what to do with you. That she can't take much more of this...of _you_.

I know I should have stopped there. That was the moment I should have walked out, gone to Janie's, thought things through...something...anything. But I guess I...just didn't, you know? I don't know why I didn't, but I didn't. All the stuff pent up for two weeks (or maybe ten years, I'm not sure) came exploding out of me in this long stream and I suddenly wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking _at all, _even. I heard what she meant to say but I didn't take it to heart because...well. Just because.

"What do you want from me, Mum?" I yelled. "I've done everything you've asked of me! I've gone to primary and got a proper education. I never once complained. I dealt with idiotic teachers who underestimated me and treated me like shit. When Parker and his mates kicked me around every day, I shrugged it off, just like you and Dad constantly told me to. I was the perfect son. I even let you pick out my clothes -- which, by the way, cheers for that, your taste in dress shirts is just brilliant --"

"Harry, this isn't a _joke_," she said angrily. "And watch your language, young man!"

I really did hear how she verbally underlined the word "joke," too. It's amazing how parents can just do that, isn't it? But -- guess what -- I wasn't joking, and so her underlined spiel had touched a nerve. Because even if I had been joking, nothing's ever a joke with her. Not anymore.

So I told her so.

And that's about when she came back at me with the requisite, "Don't you take that tone with me -- "

I shouted, "_Then don't bloody say things that make me take that bloody tone!_"

And so of course that's when pulled out the big guns and sank the shot with a foreboding, "**_Harry_**."

I knew I should have stopped there, because once The Parent takes on **_this_** tone and says your name in **_this_** voice you're just _done_. Pack it in, mate, you're finished. There can be no recovery from "**_Harry_.**"

But like I said, I just wasn't thinking clearly. I...snapped, I guess.

I said, "Merlin, Mum, you're asking what is it with me lately -- how about asking what is it with _you_ lately? When did you turn into such a -- "

Except I never got to tell her what she'd turned into because she suddenly did something she had never done before: she slapped me. Hard. And then she looked horrified, and I looked horrified, and we looked horrified at _each other_ for a good thirty seconds or so...and then I touched my cheek because it stung worse than I thought it would. She has a good arm on her. She's tougher than she appears.

She looked at me with this horrible twisted expression on her face -- some awful combination of fury, self-disgust, and anguish -- and she said in a voice as terrible as her expression, "Go to your room, Harry. Just -- just go."

And I should have left, really, but I couldn't. I was so angry with her for slapping me. Even if I did deserve it for acting like a total prat. I wanted to storm out of the kitchen and go to my room like she told me to, but make sure to slam the door just like she always told me not to. Only something stopped me, and it was that awful _look _on her face. It just made me feel like the most wretched son in the whole wide world. So I just stood there touching my cheek like a brainless lifeless puppet that needed her command to make me move. And she looked so upset and I wasn't leaving so...she walked out instead.

We didn't have supper later that night, but it was okay because I wasn't hungry. I'm never hungry anymore. In a few days, just as predicted, it went back to the old Get-washed-up-for-supper-Harry routine, and once it did, I stopped provoking her because maybe my anger isn't really all that practical. And Mum likes to keep things practical. I did learn an important lesson from all of it: I should never make Mum angry no matter how upset I am. Like I said last entry, it just hurts us both.

So that's the story. After that, Mum went silent and I stopped trying to provoke her. The misbehaviour at school... I don't even _mean_ to be doing that. It's the other kids mostly. They back me into impossible situations, you know? So I either take it (like with the toilet incident) or I fight back (like the time I got suspended for giving Parker a bloody nose). And when I fight back, it's like I have the worst luck in the world. For some reason, an interval attendant is _always _present just to see me charging like a cannonball, but suspiciously absent whenever the five of them are kicking me in the kidneys. Talk about unfair.

I guess... It's just that I so rarely am able to get the upper hand with those complete pillocks that when I finally do, I have to milk it for all it's worth. I go crazy. I may be small, but I'm vicious. I kick and punch and bite and scratch and claw, because -- well, because if I didn't, I'd lose, wouldn't I? It's the fact it's five-on-one, you see. If only Parker would face me one-on-one like he's supposed to, I might win more often. Of course, that's why I get suspended and they don't. They're neat and clean about their fights. I'm a right mess about mine. I reckon it's easier to lie down and take it than it is to risk expulsion for getting caught again, you know?

But the teachers, and the Head. It's always down to them. I'm sick of being told to just stay out of Parker's way -- to blend in and just stay off their radar and not provoke them. I mean, what do they think I'm trying to do? They act as if I actively seek Parker out for a good row or something. Truth is (and I've never told anyone this in my entire life, so don't go blabbing, okay?) I'd love to be as invisible at school as I am at home. It'd be brilliant. But I'm not. And the thing is -- this is just how life _is_, right now. This is just how things are going. There's no point in getting upset about it because it is what it is. It's not perfect, true, but it's not forever either.

It's better to be rational about things than it is to get upset about them. That's what they tell me, anyway. That's what they've been telling me all my life.

---

I was sitting at the table doing my English work. Miss Vance was having us write about the best day we've ever had, and I chose this time we went to the shore -- just me, Dad, and Mum. The water was so cold I couldn't feel my fingers and toes, and I was shivering a bit but I didn't want to get out, because Dad was throwing me up and down in the air and dunking me and letting me skim the water's surface like I was some sort of Merperson or exotic fish. From the sand, Mum sat beneath a bright purple umbrella, watching and grinning and occasionally even shouting out instructions for what Dad should do next. We finally got out of the water and Mum wrapped me in a towel, drying me off like she used to when I was a kid just hopping out of a bath, and said we should all go for an ice cream. I wasn't cold anymore.

So that's what I was working on when Sirius came in and ruffled my hair.

"What'cha doing, kid?" he asked.

He walked over to the chill box and grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice.

I wonder, sometimes, how anyone expects me to be a normal Wizarding kid with all these Muggle appliances around. Refrigerators and televisions and home-video systems...telephones...microwave ovens...hell, Mum was even talking about getting one of those computers like we have in the lab at school. I mean, really. For someone who does so much magic all the time, Mum sure does love her fancy Muggle stuff. And it doesn't _matter_ that it's all run on magic. That's not the point, is it? The point is that it's even here in the first place. It takes its toll during the "formative years," as parents and teachers are so fond of calling them. I'm at an "impressionable age." So, basically, with all this Muggle stuff around, my first inclination when someone I know is acting weird is to ask if they're a victim of Body-Snatchers, like from that old film. I'm going to go off to Hogwarts still talking half-Muggle and be completely stigmatised for it.

"Nothing much," I replied honestly, turning over my half-written assignment. "Some stuff for English."

Sirius snorted. "Bugger that for a lark," he said. "Let's do Quidditch instead. All work and no play makes Harry a dull boy. You know how to read and write; your vocabulary rivals Dumbledore's. You don't need any more English. In fact, one might say it's irresponsible of me to let you keep learning. Who knows what sort of intellectual force I'll unleash into the world?"

I felt my lips twitch. It's so nice to be with Sirius sometimes: Remus is very lacquered over, and Peter is often eager to please, and Mum's so tired and depressed, but Sirius is just the right amount of patient and passionate.

"It's due tomorrow," I argued.

"So do it later tonight," he countered. "I'll be leaving before supper, so you'll have time without distraction this evening. Your mum has something special planned," he grimaced, and that in and of itself piqued my curiosity, "so she wants me to bugger off and let her get properly prepared. I might stop by later if it's a nice night and you're done your work, but otherwise now just might be our golden opportunity."

I smiled. "Might not have time to finish my work later tonight," I said, "If Mum's got 'something special' planned, and all."

He made a clucking noise and shook his head. "Harry, Harry. I'm disappointed in you. For such a clever, trouble-making rapscallion, you're not very good at seeing obvious solutions to very standard coursework problems. All we have to do is trick Remus into doing it for you and charm the handwriting to look like yours."

"Tempting," I agreed, "But no. This one's kinda personal, you know? It's about the best day we've ever had."

His face looked blank for a second before he seemed to get it. "Ah. Right. And the best day you've ever had involves -- "

"Right," I said shortly, looking down.

Sirius sat down across from me and put his hand on my shoulder. "Harry," he said, voice softening slightly, "If you ever want to talk -- about anything -- I'm here. I miss him too. More than I'd be willing to admit, sometimes. And I get the feeling you're in the same boat. If you wanted, we could miss him together."

He issued me an encouraging smile. I swallowed and looked away.

"Thank for the offer," I said. "I'll think about it."

He clapped me on the back and stood up to go. "Right," he said, forcing a grin. "Well, if you change your mind about that Quidditch, just give a shout, yeah? I won't be doing much but helping Remus reorganise the whole bloody study. I swear to Merlin, that man's more anal-retentive than a -- " he paused and seemed to rethink his wording, perhaps upon remembering my age. "He's just very anal-retentive, isn't he."

I snickered. "Brilliant, though."

"Oh, no doubt. If I ever found myself drowning in old newspapers and musty books, he's the one I'd want coming to my rescue."

As soon as Sirius had gone, I stared down at my work and sighed. Suddenly, I couldn't imagine a stupider assignment than this one, but before I could get upset Mum interrupted me again not five minutes later when she came in and said I should help her prepare supper.

"Thought we might try something new tonight," she said. "See how it goes."

"Why?" I asked, realising belatedly how rude that sounded.

Luckily, she ignored it. "Because we're having company, and I like to have something a bit nicer on the nights we have company." She was sounding tired again already. That was depressing: I could tire her out with a single question. No, not even -- I could tire her out with a single _word. _"I'll need some help preparing."

Company meant Professor Severus Snape; I didn't have to be a mind-reader to know that. The last time he came over for supper was two weeks ago, and I disappeared without so much as a how-do. And then there was that terrible tea a few days ago; I just slipped away right in the middle of it, after he said that awful thing about me trying to be Dad now that he's dead. (I still don't know how the rest of the tea went after that, but I guess no one was murdered, seeing as I've seen Sirius since then and Snape was coming for supper tonight.) So, basically, the long and short of it was this: Snape and I did not belong in the same sphere of existence, let alone the same house. Bad things always happened when we were in the same house. Bad things always happened when we were within two miles of one another. Why would two feet somehow be better? To me, two feet sounded like it would be worse.

But I didn't say any of that, I just got to work dicing carrots and peeling potatoes, hoping Mum wouldn't make me stay all the way through 'til pudding. Snape didn't seem like a pudding type of bloke anyway. Pudding (much like smiling and slate-blue and sunshine and happiness) didn't _go_ with Snape's character.

_But hey_, I thought with a shrug as I dropped the potatoes in the pan and turned the heat on low, _prove me wrong, Professor. Prove me wrong._

---

As a matter of fact, Professor Severus Snape _did _prove me wrong. He enjoyed Mum's double-chocolate eclair with creme fresh on top; he had two helpings and actually looked like he enjoyed them, not just soldiered through them to avoid wounding Mum in her fragile state.

And Mum...oh for Merlin's sake, Mum was _smiling._

And it wasn't just a polite smile, or a tentative smile, or a sad smile like she's given a lot lately. It was a genuine trillion-Watt, eye-crinkling, heart-stopping smile. How long had it been since Mum had smiled like that? Since before Dad died, at least. Maybe longer.

God.

Part of me was glad to see Mum happy -- I mean, how could I not be? I love her, and I want her to be okay. I want her to stop hurting. And after so many weeks of being nothing but depressed and tired, she finally actually looked content and...well..._alive_, really. That was nice. No, not nice. That was brilliant. But another part of me... I'm a little ashamed to admit it, but another part of me really hated her in that minute. I just kept wondering, _what does Snape have that I don't? Why is it that he can make her smile like that when all I do is exhaust her and make her wish I'd just disappear? _

I tried to be as polite as possible when I asked, "Er...could I maybe be excused? I've got coursework, and..."

"Hmm?" Mum looked back at me and her face fell, and all at once I felt like a wretched son again. "Harry," she said, "You've barely touched your food. That's a perfectly good supper you're wasting, young man."

I looked down at it. I just...wasn't hungry. "Too much snacking as we prepared it," I lied. "I'll probably be hungry later, though. Can we save it?"

"What have I told you about snacking between meals?" Mum clucked. "Well, alright, clear your plate and be off."

"Cheers," I said uncertainly. "Er. And it was nice seeing you again, Professor Snape."

The man merely raised an eyebrow at me and waved a hand in an elegant gesture of dismissal. Which, let me tell you, really did not sit so well with me. He's not my father, and this isn't his house; he has no business dismissing me from my own supper table.

As I was wrapping my half-eaten food and putting it away in the chill box, I heard Mum and Snape's voices drifting in from the dining room. I couldn't hear everything, but I heard enough.

"I just don't know what's got into him lately," Mum was saying softly, and it sounded like her voice was muffled slightly, like she was talking into a pillow...or the front of Professor Snape's robes. "He used to be such a good kid. A little strange, but good."

"The boy did just lose his father, Lily," Snape said ironically, but his wryness was somehow gentler now that I was out the room and he could speak privately with Mum. It was like he was letting his guard down. Just for her. "You cannot expect things to just go back to what they were, instantaneously."

"It would be easier, though, wouldn't it?" Mum laughed. "It'd be one less thing to worry about, if I knew he wasn't hurting so much. What should I do, Sev?"

"Lily..." It sounded like he was talking through gritted teeth, now. "Talk to him. There is no greater advice I can give. The longer you put it off, the more complicated the situation shall become."

"Maybe you could talk to him?" Mum asked hopefully. "You two have more in common than you might think."

"I have nothing in common with that -- _boy_," Snape snapped.

_Wow, _I thought privately. If that was Snape holding himself back, I wonder what he would've said if it had been Sirius in the room, and not Mum.

"Careful, Sev," Mum said, and I could just imagine the expression that went with her tone. "That's my son you almost insulted."

"I apologise," Snape said stiffly. "But it's true. He and I have nothing in common -- nothing at all. Except, perhaps, for the fact we both love you and want to see you happy."

I winced. He loved Mum? This could only lead to bad things and sorrow. Soon they'd move in together and I'd have to stay in my room permanently and only leave for school and outings with Sirius. I could never drink tea on the patio or eat at the supper table again. I'd have to forage for food like some sort of wild animal. Whenever anyone came to visit I'd have to hide in my pants drawer and pretend I didn't exist. Eventually they'd find me, weeks later, nothing but bleached bones drowning in pants.

Then Mum responded, "Severus, you know I'm not ready for anything...romantic," and I felt loads better.

"I know," Snape replied. "But should you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"At any rate. Give him a chance," Mum went on, once the awkwardness had passed. "If you just look past the fact he's the spitting image of the man who tortured you all through your teenage years, you might actually see how beautiful and brilliant and wonderful my darling son is."

"And here we have Lily Potter, ladies and gentlemen, the psychological goldmine," Snape replied witheringly, and Mum giggled. "I cannot even begin to dissect that one; it's so rife with loaded language I would not touch it with a ten-foot pole."

"Help me clear the dishes, you great prat," Mum said fondly, and I knew I'd better scarper before they caught me eavesdropping.

Once I made it up to my room, I started wondering what the hell was going on. Snape was still in love with Mum, but Mum wasn't ready (thank Merlin!) to accept his advances. But she did want him to get to know me better...to make an effort with me. Maybe even try to get me to talk about Dad. And what was this business about it being "easier" if she knew I wasn't hurting so much? I mean, first off, I wasn't hurting that much -- it was hard, some days, and I missed him, but she made it sound like I was in a Jane Austen novel. And second off, what could I possibly do to make it easier? Really? I disappear, I pretend, I don't talk out of turn...we haven't had any more fights since that time with the slap...I don't know what she wants from me.

If I just knew how to put this all right, I would be doing a better job of it. But I don't, you see? And I feel like -- I feel like she should be doing a better job of it too.

And so that's about when I got to thinking how it really wasn't meant to be like this. If we're all trying to be practical like Mum says we should, then Mum shouldn't be ignoring me and Dad should be here instead of some surly hook-nosed professor who has only said one thing to me in the whole time he's known me. Because...talk about a serious breach in practicality.

It wasn't adding up for me...what it ought to be like versus what it was. It's like in maths, you know? Like you've got this variable. You've got this secret number you're trying to solve for, and then you'll get the answer you've always wanted to know. You'll understand, then. You'll _get it_.

But I still didn't get it.

It just didn't make very much sense, because the equation was right but it still wasn't producing the expected results, and I had no idea what I could do to make it work again. I mean...maybe if I stopped acting out or whatever, things would run more smoothly. Maybe if I just worked really hard -- like really, really, _really_ hard -- and started solving all my own problems, I'd be self-sufficient. I wouldn't need anyone or anything. And besides, Mum would be able to focus on herself completely and that'd be one less problem in her life, and she'll be able to cope better and recover quicker (and not smile stupidly over double-chocolate eclairs, or let Snape touch the small of her back).

And I'll be better for it, too, because it means I'll be strong and independent -- confident and aloof. And practical, just like what she wants.

I could be a machine.

---

A/N: Please tell me what you think so far!


	4. Chapter 3: Lily, Severus

**Notes:** I apologise for the lateness of the update; my summer classes are almost over, so I think I'll be able to get the next one out sooner. Hope you enjoy! There's a lot of exposition in this one, but I tried not to make it too boring.

Chapter title idea goes to Staring Contest With the Abyss. Thanks!

---

Chapter 3 -- Lily, Severus

**10 May 1990  
LILY**

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that I'm a horrid mother for leaving my son to fend for himself throughout this whole process. But you must realise it isn't like that. Not really.

One thing you have to know about Harry is that he was raised...well, he was raised by one James Potter. My husband is -- _was _-- a magnificent man, brilliant and passionate and supportive and kind, but we had two very contrasting schools of thought when it came to child-rearing...especially when that child was male. From the word go, James was always the hard, macho "tough guy" in school. He always took great pride in how much he could pile on -- injuries from Quidditch, detentions with Filch...the works. So naturally when it came round to raising Harry, James wanted our son to follow in his footsteps. James wanted Harry to be tough as nails, the way he had been.

Oh, he didn't _say _it, of course. He never scolded Harry for emoting, or told him to "man up." Nothing like that. James was a good man, and he loved Harry just the way he was. It was more that...well, every once in a while he'd make a comment-- seemingly harmless, but I could see how eagerly Harry lapped it all up -- and I just knew things were going to get complicated quickly. Sometimes James would say, "Just shrug it off, kiddo, it's not worth it," or "There's my tough little man, why don't we stop that crying, eh?" Never meant in detriment, but perhaps it worked so anyway. Before we knew it, Harry had stopped crying by the age of two. Scraped knee? No problem. Nightmare? Sorted. Harry was as rough-and-tumble as they come, all because James taught him how to keep it together at the tender age of three.

I attempted to point out to James that sometimes men _did_ cry..._did_ apologise, _did_ beg for forgiveness... (did beg for other things as well, if we're to be perfectly candid here). And yet, James seemed to just gloss right over all of that.

I didn't agree with any of this, really -- I had my method, and it was the motherly approach. Yes, I try to be very fierce and practical and professional as well -- I have my career as an Auror to think of, after all, and it would be ridiculous to coddle and protect the trainees and applicants who come in looking to join the Force. I mean, how will they ever learn if I don't drive them hard? But when it came to Harry...of course he's another matter entirely. I would try to let him know, from time to time, that it was okay to feel what he was feeling and talk about it, but he just looked at me like I was mental. After a while I suppose I just...stopped trying.

So, you see, Harry isn't used to affection, isn't used to wanting it or needing it...or even admitting to himself when it's okay to want or need it. Or to need anything else, really. That's not to say James never hugged him, or that I never sang him back to sleep when he woke suddenly in the night. It's just that ten years of implications regarding what men allegedly did and didn't do quite obviously left their mark, because...well, how could they not?

It's a wide-spread Western societal thing, I'd wager.

When James died, I think I went off my head a bit. I turned to work; I drowned myself in it. (Perhaps I still do, to be perfectly frank.) I became cold and distant -- as much as possible anyway -- and dismissed poor Harry, while simultaneously preaching all this business about coping with our loss, and remembering the good times, and trying to get to the heart of the matter...I don't know, honestly, how much of it I believe. Really, truly, at the end of the day I would give anything to just pretend it never happened. To just shut everything out and feel nothing for a few hours...or days...or weeks. A sort of _wake me when it's over _mentality, you know? I think I wanted to pretend it didn't hurt so much and then, perhaps, it wouldn't.

That accident...that stupid bloody accident...James wasn't even meant to be working the field that night; we were an Auror short and he offered to take up the slack. When the curses started flying, I turned my focus onto my own fight, of course, because I figured James could handle himself. And why shouldn't he? He's -- excuse me; he _was _-- such an adept Auror that the idea he might lose never occurred to me.

But I expect that's always the case, isn't it? Something is always true until the one time it's not. Someone is the best until the time they're bested. Someone's alive until they're dead. It sounds rather obvious, trite, and sneer-worthy, but sod it all if it isn't true as well. It just takes a second -- a second's hesitation, a second's indecision, a falter, a stumble -- and you're down. You can't drop the ball, and you must always be your best. That's the nature of the game. It's what I love about it...and what I detest as well.

It's exhausting, putting on a brave, fierce, impartial face at work and then coming home and shutting myself away in my room so no one sees how wrecked I am about it. Trying to be normal for all the people I'm in charge of -- never showing weakness, never letting on -- only to find I have nothing left to give the person I love most: my son.

Severus thinks I don't notice Harry falling further and further beneath the cracks; he's wrong, I do. I know I have an obligation to Harry and I'm buggering this up royally. I need to fix this. I need to be there for him. There's no getting around the fact I've disappointed him...perhaps not irreparably, but we're certainly veering down that path.

At this point, though, I haven't the foggiest what to do. I'm ill-equipped. But when push comes to shove, I think Severus has what it takes -- even if he doesn't see it, yet.

---

**11 May 1990  
SEVERUS**

She asked the unthinkable: she wanted me to babysit her son.

I have classes to teach. Hogwarts has not officially let out yet and I still have papers to mark, points to take, potions to brew, students to belittle -- I imagine you get the picture. What I mean to say (just in case you cannot grasp my meaning beneath all the dripping sarcasm in my tone) is that I have a life outside of Lily Evans-Potter, and I cannot be expected to run round her house at all hours of the day and night, playing child-minder to her indolent, arrogant Potter-spawn.

I love that woman; I am surprisingly unashamed to admit it. But she has some nerve, expecting me to clear up her messes where Harry Potter is concerned.

No, darling Lily, light of my life, I do not want to spend an evening watching reruns of _Doctor Who_ with your wayward brat. First off, though I have not seen _Doctor Who _once in my life, it sounds terribly whimsical and Muggle in its ideation. Second off, even if I _did_ approve of such a programme, I would most certainly prefer to watch it in more dignified company.

Merlin, do I despise children.

You might be wondering, at this juncture, why it is I decided to become an educator when so I detest shaping young minds. My reason is not so much a reason as it is a name. Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore and I have worked out some of the bad blood that remains between us, but I doubt we shall ever truly be on good terms. Something about my willingness to sacrifice an entire family just to save the love of my life did not quite sit well with him, I should think. But, honestly. As if he should be one to talk about sacrifices -- the man is a veritable walking game of chess.

But I appear to be getting ahead of myself. Allow me to explain.

Back when my former Lord was convinced the Prophecy pertained to a certain Potter child over whom I've already expressed such ire, I appealed to one Albus Dumbledore in hopes he might keep Lily safe when the Dark Lord attacked. I agreed to do anything he asked of me. (In retrospect, not a very Slytherin move on my part, but _c'est__ la vie_; what is done is done.) The Headmaster came through on his end of the agreement -- perhaps a bit cruelly, using harsh words and a cutting tone quite inconsistent with the "grandfatherly old man" persona he typically adopts in public -- but nonetheless, he did come through. He provided them with the best protection possible, and for that I was grateful. Perhaps more grateful than I would ever admit to myself. Even in a whisper, in the dark, at wandpoint.

Of course, it was all for naught when it turned out Neville Longbottom was the one the Dark Lord wanted. I was, of course, relieved. Lily was safe; what more could I ask for? Dumbledore, however, was not of the same mind and saw fit to ask a great deal more of _me_. He asked that I continue to offer my services to him and his people by rejoining the Order and agreeing to protect the Boy-Who-Lived when Longbottom made it to school.

Hence, my position as Potions Master at Hogwarts. It is not such a terrible position, all things considered -- the pay is reasonable, all my needs are met, and I have access to both the Floo and a nearby Apparition point outside castle bounds, so I am not limited in mobility when it comes to fetching supplies and making unscheduled visits to old friends.

In essence, it could be far worse. I am satisfied: I have what I need, no more and no less. My only real complaint is (of course) the students, but what is a teaching position without students to teach? Much as I would like a school without those inarticulate dunderheads, I expect I would be out of a job. And I suppose every once in a while I meet a young individual who doesn't _completely_ drive me round the bend...someone possessing of talent and ambition and potential, someone willing to try, someone who isn't an utter waste of cauldron space. Those are the moments I savour.

That said, I also savour my moments alone. Those brief respites from teaching, and from dealing with children in general. Which is why Lily's request struck such a nerve.

"No," I replied when she asked. I said it quickly, and with great conviction. I do not see how she could possibly find reason to ask again.

And yet she did.

"Look, Sev," she said, "I'm pulling a double shift tonight. I'm not even supposed to be here -- visiting you to ask if you can watch Harry tonight, I mean -- but I figure they wouldn't miss me if I popped over for a moment. I wouldn't impose, it's only that...well...there's no one else available on such short notice."

"And what makes you think I am available on such short notice?" I growled. "Just because it happens to be a Friday does not mean I am suddenly relieved of all teacherly duties. A whole academic world exists beyond the classroom, Lily, and I happen to take my place in it. What's more, I have a life outside of Hogwarts: supplies to buy, orders to fill, and missions to take part in. I have responsibilities, Lily -- and ones I've been shirking as of late, might I add."

She paused as we both heard what I was implying, and though she took my rant with her usual good grace and an answering raised eyebrow I could tell she was nearing her threshold of _not very pleased _with my sarcasm.

"Well, really, Severus," she said wryly, "I didn't know things had got so bad on your end. Maybe I ought to send you your own personal House elf? They're dead useful, I'm told. And really -- if visiting is posing such an imposition, let's just leave off for a while."

I pinched the bridge of my nose in frustration. "Your mockery is less than appreciated, seeing as you know that is not what I meant," I said sharply. "I enjoy your company greatly and wish to continue our weekly meetings. Perhaps without the lump, the mutt, and the werewolf next time, but that stipulation aside..."

She laughed: a cynical, tired, yet musical sound. "Severus, I'm no fool; I realise you have a complicated, intricate life outside of afternoon teas and evening meals with me. I do. Which is why I promise I wouldn't be asking if there weren't anyone else, see?"

"Can't Black do it?" I asked, half-hoping, half-sneering. "He practically worships the ground the boy walks on."

The raised eyebrow again. "I'll graciously ignore that one and chalk it up to loss of inhibition on account of acute emotional distress. Sirius can't do it. He's working a double tonight as well."

"Lupin? Pettigrew?"

"Remus is still getting his bearings from the full moon two days ago, and Peter..." She broke off, frowning slightly. "Strange, but I don't know what Peter is doing tonight, actually; all I know is he said he was busy."

I snorted. No doubt rushing off to the nearest confectionary since he discovered this morning that, to his deepest regret and horror, all his cakes had disappeared. "Couldn't you send the boy to your darling sister's for a spell?" I said, thinking fondly of the bitter, bony, horse-faced girl of our childhood.

Lily grimaced. "Harry hates it there, and they're not all that fond of him either. Vernon goes rather purple, Petunia looks as though she's smelt something foul, and their charming son smirks in a most malevolent fashion. At any rate, Harry always comes back looking like he's had to go ten rounds with Dementor. I try to avoid shipping him off to the Dursleys' whenever possible." She paused, looking hopeful. "So...do you think...maybe you could...? You would have the whole rest of the weekend to yourself. And besides, he doesn't need much when you get down to it -- you can leave him to his own devices, go off and mark essays, and he'll fare just fine. I just want someone there in case he needs something. You understand."

I did, and that was the worst part. I believe understanding is, ultimately, what made it so difficult to refuse.

"How long?" I muttered finally, not even attempting to keep the waspishness out of my voice, Lily's beliefs about common courtesy be damned.

However, she did not seem to notice my ire: her face broke into a radiant smile. "You mean you'll do it?" she asked.

"I didn't say that," I snapped. "I asked how long you intended on utilising my child-minding services."

But of course that smile was not leaving her beautiful face. She just looked chuffed to _bits_. "Oh, a few hours. Nothing too long. I'll have you back to your comfortable chambers by midnight."

"_Midnight?_" I demanded. "No, that's far too late. Absolutely not. Find someone else to do it."

She sighed slightly, placing her hand on top of mine. "Please, Sev? We've been through this: there _is_ no one else to do it, and this is a really important case tonight. We've been tracking them for months...keeping tabs, making preparations...and through it all, I've been at the forefront. I need to be there. More than that, I _want _to be there. But I want to know Harry is safe, too."

Oh, Lily. Oh, darling, lovely, and above all _manipulative _Lily. Why is it I cannot say no to you?

"What time do I need to be there?" I snarled finally.

As predicted, the answering smile she gave me made the whole damn bloody thing worth it.

---

I arrived at half-seven; Lily had somehow managed to get away from the Force for just enough time to kiss the boy goodbye and promise him she would not be back too terribly late, and anything he needed he could ask of me. I just narrowly restrained a snort at that one.

"And you," she said, turning to me and lowering her voice, "Be good, yeah? He's not James, no matter the resemblance. He's a fantastic, brilliant boy...just chat to him a while and I guarantee you'll see it."

I made a non-committal noise and muttered she ought to get back before the rest of her team began to wonder where she'd gone.

After she'd left, a chill seemed to descend upon the room. Potter was looking anywhere but at me, taking every excuse possible to focus on something else -- some other object, some other corner, some other anything, really. His hands jumped from surface to surface: teakettle, countertop, saltshaker, fraying hole in his jean trousers. I swore to Merlin, if he fiddled with the breadbasket _one more time _--

"Do you want anything to eat or drink?" the boy asked, sounding surprisingly calm for how discomfited he looked.

"I am fine," I replied stiffly, then added, "Do you require any assistance with your coursework?" hoping my tone conveyed my extreme distaste for the idea.

"I'm set, thanks, sir," Potter mumbled. Well, at least he was polite. Though, of course, how could one be raised by Lily Evans-Potter and not pick up a few of her ideals regarding proper forms of address? We stared at each other (and then, of course, everywhere _but_) for a good thirty seconds more in painfully awkward silence before he muttered, "Right, I should -- "

"You do that," I replied witheringly, and stalked off to Lily's study to perhaps get a bit of work in before exhaustion set in.

I was just in the middle of marking yet another dismal essay when I heard some banging and clanging coming from the vicinity of the kitchen. Annoyed, I set down my parchment and quill and went to investigate. Potter looked up as I came in, interrupted from his task of retrieving a medium-sized pot in one hand and clutching a tin of soup in the other.

"And just _what_ do you think you're doing?" I inquired, because although it was quite obvious what the boy thought he was doing, I have found in my vast experience with children that the bridge between what a child thinks he is doing (heating up a tin of soup) and what he is actually doing (putting everyone within a mile radius in danger of incineration) is dilapidated and built from rotting wood. Besides, I was in a foul mood and there was never anything wrong with a bit of extra intimidation, as far as I was concerned.

Potter, however, looked strangely un-intimidated. Uncomfortable, certainly, but not intimidated. "Making supper, sir," he replied awkwardly. "I was hungry and I just thought..."

"You just thought you fancied burning the whole house down, is that it?" I finished for him, striding purposefully over to where he stood and snatching the pot from his small hands. "You're barely tall enough to see over the top of the stove; imagine the risk you are placing us at should your sleeves accidentally catch fire as you struggle to reach the pot and remove it from the heat!"

Potter, stung both at the slight to his stature and the notion I thought he could not perform a task so simple as cooking soup, crossed his arms defensively across his thin chest and stared up at me with a peculiar expression in his eyes.

"I've made soup before, sir," he said, his voice an almost perfect imitation of Lily's when she was extremely displeased but endeavouring not to show it. "I think I'll manage."

I ignored that, turning instead to the tin of soup. "And what's this? Alphabetti Sphagetti?"

"Yeah?" Potter asked. "What of it?"

"Well, for starters, it has next to no nutritional value; 'tomato-based' does not indicate real tomatoes," I said snidely.

"Well, okay, but --"

"Secondly," I overrode him, "The tin is dented. I wasn't aware you had a death wish?" He blinked at me and I shook my head in disgust. "_That is how you get_ _Botchulism__, Potter_."

Dawning comprehension lit the boy's face. "No, don't worry, that's a myth," he said. "It's not every dented can, really -- you can only get Botchulism if the can has a hole in it. I checked this one thoroughly. It has a dent, but no hole."

I snorted. "Forgive me if I distrust the observation skills of an impetuous, reckless _child_ who appears to have eyesight as bad as his fa-- "

I stopped. We looked at each other, then looked away.

"I suppose my eyesight is pretty bad," the boy conceded finally, looking strangely numb.

Another awkward, awful silence fell as he stared off into space, face still set in that cruel emotionless mask. That alone made me nervous. Had I pushed him over the edge? Good Lord, Lily would murder me in cold blood. I was vastly out of my depth, here.

I cleared my throat.

"Yes, well," I said at length. "Eyesight aside, the pasta letters are idiotic. I believe you are beyond the point of spelling things out by now?"

The expression cleared from his face immediately. "Well, I should _h-o-p-e_ so," the boy said cheekily.

I wanted to walk out of the room and Disapparate from that house immediately. However, reluctantly I stayed, and reluctantly I made the suggestion I knew Lily would thank me for later. "How about we cook something together?" I supplied, gritting my teeth. "Something healthy -- that is, a bit less Botchulism and perhaps some real vegetables. Something, perchance, from which one cannot spell out one's name."

"Oh yeah?" Potter said curiously. "What did you have in mind? I could check the chillbox, see what Mum's got lying around."

"Mmm," I said non-committally, and he walked over to the refrigerator. I noticed him brush his hair out of his face -- a fluid, unconscious gesture that so reminded me of James Potter that I had to count to ten.

_Lily,_ I thought to myself fiercely, _I love you tremendously and imagine I always will. But you have some nerve, foisting your son on me._

---

"Chop carefully, and cut _away _from yourself, Potter," I admonished, plucking the knife out of his small hand and demonstrating the proper way. "Keep your elbows in and your hold firm but loose, and always, always, _always_ cut from the inside out, away from yourself. Many a skilled Potioneer has lost a finger by forgetting that simple but critical rule."

"Ah. Right, got it." He repositioned the knife and took to slicing the carrots once more. "Did you always want to be a Potions Master, sir?" he asked. "Like, even back when you were still a student?"

I snorted, tossing the diced potatoes into the pan and starting in on the onions. "Well, to be honest, I was rather hoping I would make chief fry cook at the Leaky Cauldron, but it just so happens spending every waking hour pouring over useless essays and brewing potions I shall never use was more to Fate's liking," I said, perhaps a bit more sarcastically than was absolutely necessary.

Potter studied me carefully for a moment; then, apparently satisfied with whatever he saw, he gave a graceful nod and returned to his chopping. "Suppose you could do anything," he said after a moment's silence. "Be anyone, live any life in the entire world. What would it be and why?"

"Favour the quixotic, do we?" I sneered.

Those bright green eyes narrowed for a split-second before he recovered. "Just because I like to imagine the what-if's doesn't make me quixotic. I'm very practical. You don't know me. Sir," he added, albeit reluctantly.

I was momentarily impressed. Not many children his age had even encountered the word before, let alone looked it up and committed the definition to memory. Of course, it was ruined by the defensive tone and (let us be honest here: downright cliche) language, which just made him come across as an angry prepubescent. A rebel without a cause.

Luckily, he seemed to realise it as well, for when he spoke again, it was in a calmer and slightly chagrined voice.

"So," Potter said, blushing a bit, "Are you gonna answer?"

"_Going to_, Potter," I snapped absent-mindedly. "Not _gonna__. _'Gonna' is not a word; you will not find it in the Oxford English Dictionary -- nor should you. Honestly, the way the English language is deteriorating these days... The proper verb phrase you are looking for would be the gerund _going_ placed before the infinitive _to answer. _Phrased in the form of a question, you might turn to me and inquire politely, 'Professor, are you going to answer?' And in response to said question, I would shake my head and tell you I must most regretfully decline."

Potter looked at me wryly. "Okay. So, professor," he tried, "Are you going to answer?"

"No," I said shortly, and Potter fell silent once more.

By the time we'd finished making supper (a simple vegetable and chicken stir fry dish), Potter was actually smiling.

"This is really good," he said shyly, as he popped another bite of onion into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. He thankfully waited until he'd swallowed to continue. "I mean, Mum makes nice things sometimes, and I've helped her cook and prepare supper, but we very rarely have anything as good as this unless you're coming over."

I wrinkled my nose. He spoke as if I had presented him with gourmet cuisine, instead of the vegetable and chicken dish we'd whipped up with very little bother indeed. Then again, I suppose if one has been living off Alphabetti Spaghetti all his life, I daresay a simple veg and chicken done right (and not from take-away) would likely floor him.

"I wouldn't call this 'nice,' Potter. I would call it a mainstay. Meals such as this one -- tasty and healthy -- ought to be a staple in your diet. Every day, you ought to have protein, veg, grains, fruit, and milk; you may occasionally indulge in sweets. Didn't they teach you all this in that infernal Muggle school of yours?"

"They did," Potter confirmed.

I raised an eyebrow. "So?"

"So, it's complicated," Potter muttered.

He did not look like he wanted to talk about it, which was just as well -- I did not want to hear about it.

I was about to return to my marking when Potter said, "Want to watch _Doctor Who?_ Mum told me you never saw it as a kid even though she kept trying to get you to watch it with her. That seems like a travesty to me. The series ended last year, but we've got everything on tape if you'd like to see it. It's about a Time-Lord from the planet -- "

"Yes, yes, your mother has already talked my ear off about it. And no, Potter," I said, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I would not like to watch a show about a time-travelling alien who periodically saves the world." Potter looked as though he wanted to object, perhaps to argue that this was not all _Doctor Who _was about, but I went on before he could get a word in edgewise. "You see, Potter, I, unlike you, have work that cannot be put off until whenever the mood strikes."

The boy shrugged. "Well, fair enough," he replied. "I still say you're missing out; I'll be in there if you change your mind." He paused in the doorway, giving me a look I'd never seen on James Potter's face before. _Gratitude._ "And sir," he added, "thanks again for supper. It was great."

I ignored this, and he left as soon as he realised he wouldn't be getting a response. I heard him start up the show and I returned to the study, shut the door to keep out the noise, retrieved my pile of unmarked essays, and crossed over to the sofa. Then I pinched the bridge of my nose against the burgeoning headache, resigning myself to a very long night.

---

A/N: From now on there will be more Severus and Harry interaction, though Harry likely still won't talk more about his Dad (with anyone who isn't a notebook) for a while. It may eventually be LE/SS, I haven't decided, but if that's the case it wouldn't be for a long time and it certainly won't be the focus of the piece. Thoughts? Feelings? Tell me what you think!


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